


for the love of food

by dedkake



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Cooking, M/M, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedkake/pseuds/dedkake
Summary: Charles is a struggling single father. Erik teaches him to cook real meals for his son.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAssbenderWhisperer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAssbenderWhisperer/gifts).



> Filling the prompt: Erik teaching Charles how to cook for David. Happy Secret Mutant!

Charles doesn’t quite know how it happened. There was an unfortunate encounter with the ground at the grocery store and a grumpy stranger chastising his choice of lunch for his child and a business card shoved into his hands and now he’s here. After hours in the kitchen of a small diner with Erik, whom he barely knows.

“So,” Charles starts, grasping for something to say. 

“So,” Erik repeats, leaning in the doorway. There’s nothing intimidating about Erik’s mind, just an air of vague annoyance and amusement that should be offensive. Charles tries to be offended. It’s testament to how long he’s been alone that he finds the lean appealing anyway.

“You have my entire kitchen at your disposal. What are you going to make your poor child for lunch tomorrow?” Erik asks, and this time it’s easy to be offended.

Charles glares and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who said I needed lessons! You tell me what I should do,” he says, because really, he shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t have time for this.

Shaking his head, Erik says, “No, I need to know what I’m working with before I can teach you anything.”

Charles takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to let his frustration and anxiety roll away. His therapist would be proud. “Lunchables,” he says, refusing to move an inch more into the kitchen, “that’s what you’re dealing with.”

“I know that,” Erik says, scrunching his nose in distaste. “But I need to see what you’re actually capable of when you apply yourself to making real food.”

And the anxiety’s back, seizing his chest and tightening his throat. “Look,” Charles starts, staring at a crack in the paint near Erik’s head. “I know I’m a shit father when it comes to this.” He has to take a breath and refocus as Erik’s mind turns sour with guilt and pity. “I wouldn’t even be here if the school counselor hadn’t suggested that a change in diet may help David socialize better. So please just give me a break and explain to me what I need to do.”

The entire theory is mostly bullshit—the school just doesn’t know what to do with such an early manifestation of telepathy—but Charles has to try something. Not that Erik needs to know that particular detail. He knows all that he needs to to help Charles and that’s all he’s going to get.

Erik sighs, the exhale going on long enough to make Charles stomach twist. Maybe he’ll just kick him out. That would be fine. Charles can just find out how to be a great cook online. Google knows everything.

“There’s bread in that cabinet,” Erik says, pointing.

“What?” Charles asks, because that was not at all helpful.

“Last time I checked, you need bread to make a sandwich,” Erik says, stalking past Charles towards the large refridgerator. “What kind of lunch meat will he eat?”

Charles is still a little breathless, not sure how to turn his anxiety into gratitude as his mind tries to catch up with the change in Erik’s approach. He swallows and says, “He likes the turkey Lunchables best.”

-

It’s a good thing that Erik’s diner is only open for breakfast and lunch, because Charles finds that he needs quite a lot of help cooking. The more he cooks, the more questions he has, and the more he seeks out Erik for help—well, that and because Erik is the only person in the world he knows who isn’t judgmental of the way that he’s raising his son.

The cooking itself isn’t too bad, either. Even though the diner kitchen wasn’t designed for a someone in a wheelchair, the aisles are large enough for him to squeeze through. The counters are mostly too high to work on, but he’s able to do cutting and mixing. And when the limitations of the kitchen catch up, he’s able to take notes—Erik is very serious about note-taking.

But not even the joys of learning to cook spaghetti with Erik in the quiet of the diner kitchen are allowing him to relax tonight. As soon as they’ve dumped the last of the ingredients into the pot, he pushes away from the counter, giving himself room.

“I got another call from David’s teacher today,” Charles says, relieved that Erik’s mind stays calm and collected at the words. If only he could emulate that.

“What did she say this time?” Erik asks, stirring the sauce on the stove with a flick of his fingers. The casual use of his powers washes over Charles, soothing away some of the stress of the day.

Charles pulls out his phone, pulling up the memo he was able to jot down after the call. “David still has no friends and, I quote, ‘refuses to work with others because he says they don’t care about school the way he does.’”

Erik frowns, his glance shifting from the pot, to Charles, and back again. “He’s probably right,” he says, a smile on the corner of his mouth.

“That’s not the point,” Charles says, too frustrated to be amused by the compliment. “She thinks it’s my fault. Every time I visit, I can feel her judging me. I’m either a terrible father in her eyes, or a terrible telepath. Probably both.”

Leaning against the counter so he can fully face Charles, Erik says, “Well, we know neither of those are true.”

Charles sighs, running a hand over his face. “Again, not the point. David needs to be able to succeed in school, and no one has any strategies to help. There are so few cases of telepathy manifesting as young as it did for him and they’re all so different from one another that they’re barely helpful anyway.”

Erik squints at him for a moment and Charles hopes he’s not going to ask when he manifested—he’s been down that road with his therapist too many times and he knows relying on his own childhood will be no help, either. But Erik just says, “Pull him out of school.”

“Excuse me?” Charles says, trying not to gape.

“Homeschool him,” Erik says simply, shrugging a shoulder. “Humans don’t know what the hell they’re doing when they’re in a classroom with mutants.”

“That’s such a terrible idea, I don’t even know where to start,” Charles says, his mind reeling with the ridiculousness of the thought—he’s not even worried by the stormy look Erik sends him. “Regardless of the statistically proven fact that homeschooling is worse for kids _and_ the fact that I am a single father with a corporate job, the problem here is that David isn’t good at socializing. Removing him from other kids will not help with that.”

There’s a frustrated set to Erik’s mind, one Charles is used to seeing in people fed up with the system. “Fine. Put him in a mutant-only school,” he snaps, turning back to the sauce.

Again, ridiculous. “The genetic makeup of his teachers and classmates has nothing to do with it, Erik. He’s in an inclusion school now, anyway—fifty-fifty mutant-to-human ratio in staff and students. He needs help and I don’t know how to give it to him.”

Erik is looking at him again, a determined glint in his eye, the flavor of which Charles barely has a chance to catch from his mind before Erik is crossing the room, leaning close into his space. “What are you doing?” Charles asks, leaning back farther in his chair.

“First,” Erik says, licking his lips, “I’m going to kiss you. Then you’re going to listen to me.” And he does, the kiss firm and demanding, his fingers coming up to bracket Charles’ face.

Charles is too startled to protest, lost in the kiss as soon as it starts. By the time his brain catches up with his mouth, Erik is pulling back, looking a little more flushed than before.

“David’s going to be fine,” he says, his voice rough and low. “You’re doing everything you can and that’s enough.”

Erik’s mind is so sharp and bright that Charles can only nod in agreement—and ask, “Are you going to kiss me again?”

-

There are candles on the table when he shows up and he’s been promised three courses.

Charles isn’t quite sure what to do when Erik invites him to the diner after hours for a _date_. He hasn’t seen anyone since David was born, if truth be told, and he’s not sure he remembers how to act around people he’s _dating_.

Of course, the kissing part was easy enough, especially with the way Erik melted over him, drawing him close and holding him tight, like they’ve been together for years. But just talking? Eating? Suddenly Charles isn’t quite sure how to be a person.

Erik doesn’t seem nervous at all. He’s smiling and his mind is crisp and clear, just like normal. But that makes sense—Erik doesn’t do things that he’s uncertain about. He either steers clear, or dives headfirst into whatever it is he’s doing—like going on an at-home, intimate date with a single father who has been a mess since moment one of their relationship.

“You do realize this is a terrible idea,” Charles says around a mouthful of the most delicious spinach salad he’s ever eaten.

Erik raises an eyebrow at him in question, too polite to talk while he has food in his mouth. Charles is only mildly chagrined.

“I have a son,” he says simply.

“I’m well aware,” Erik replies, taking a sip of his wine. “Although I’ve yet to meet him. He could just be a figment of your imagination. Or an excuse for you to indulge in terrible pre-packaged lunches.”

Charles glares. “I thought we agreed to not talk about the Lunchables.”

Erik grins at him and holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m sure I’ll find plenty more to criticize, don’t worry.”

“Erik,” Charles says, setting his silverware down. “I have a son, and as much as I would love for you to meet him or for us to keep seeing each other like this, he comes first. And what he needs is consistency. I’m not going to disrupt his schedule for you, and I can’t introduce people into his life who might leave him someday.”

His mind turning slowly, Erik considers Charles across the table before he nods. “I understand,” he says. “But you’re here now. Does that mean you’re at least giving me a shot?”

Letting out a breath, Charles smiles back. “Depends on what you’ve got for the main course.”

-

Soup, it turns out, is much more complicated than Charles had previously assumed. When he texts Erik asking which brand of canned chicken noodle soup will help David’s cold the most, Erik calls him back immediately and spends ten minutes yelling at him about how terrible canned soup is over the phone.

Charles hangs up on him and buys the damned soup anyway so he can get home and make sure that David is okay.

He ends up back in Erik’s kitchen the next evening, though, jotting notes down in his new recipe book as Erik debones a chicken. 

“You know,” Charles says, wincing as Erik tears into the chicken with his knife, “millions of people eat canned soup every year and most of them are just fine.”

Erik glowers at him over his shoulder. “Stop spouting nonsense in my kitchen. It’s catching. It’ll get in the food.”

“David’s doing better today, so not only did the soup not kill him, it probably helped,” Charles continues.

Letting out a deep sigh, Erik turns towards Charles and points at him with his knife. “You are the problem with this country.”

“That’s a little unfair,” Charles says, not really offended at all. Erik is awfully sensitive about food—it’s as endearing as it can be annoying.

Erik leans back against the counter, his eyes on his shoes, before he says, “This is my mother’s recipe.” Charles finds himself smiling at the warmth in Erik’s tone, even as he gets a whiff of bittersweet nostalgia along with it. “She always made it for me when I was sick. She said it was the love of the recipe that made me better, not the soup itself.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, can’t interrupt this moment. Erik doesn’t often share about himself, beyond his political views, and Charles wants to know everything.

“She promised me she would make it for my children, too.” Erik’s eyes are fixed on the pot on the stove, narrowed, matching the downturn of his mouth.

“Erik,” Charles says, when Erik doesn’t continue. “I’m sure David will love it.”

Erik’s eyes flick back to Charles, searching, but Charles doesn’t reach out with his mind, just offers a small smile. 

“He always tells me he wishes I knew some of his grandmother’s recipes,” Charles continues. “But I am determined to keep those cocktail recipes a secret from him until he is at least sixteen.”

This time, Erik chuckles softly and moves back to the stove. “From what you’ve told me, he’s too smart for that.”

Charles grins and rolls himself over to Erik’s side. “Not if I keep feeding him canned soup, apparently.”

-

Charles calls Erik when the cake catches fire and Erik arrives forty minutes later with new ingredients and a mildly condescending glare.

“How have you survived into your thirties?” he asks as he pushes his way into the kitchen.

Following Erik down the hall, Charles very consciously does not reach out with his mind to slow Erik down. “I was doing just fine until I met you.”

Erik huffs and drops his bags down on the counter. “As I recall, when you met me, you knocked me over and spilled all of our groceries into a giant puddle. Including your week’s supply of Lunchables.”

Charles can’t help grinning at him from the doorway. He likes this, Erik in his kitchen, where everything is designed for easier access from a wheelchair, where Charles can help out and keep up. The added intimacy of being home is a plus, too.

“Well, I’ll have you know that David’s fancy sandwich lunches are the cause of much conversation in the school cafeteria these days,” Charles says. “Even though all David wants to talk about is how much he misses Lunchables.”

Erik rolls his eyes and starts laying out his ingredients. “Children don’t know what’s good for them.”

“They know that cake is a staple of a birthday party though, so if I’m to stay number one dad of the year, I need to have a cake ready by five.”

Somehow, miraculously, or maybe just because Erik is as fantastic a baker as he is a chef, the cake doesn’t burn this time—even though Charles introduces Erik to his very comfortable couch for a quick nap while the cake is in the oven.

“The kids will be back from the community center soon,” Charles says, glaring at the time on his phone.

Erik tries to roll himself off the couch, but is largely unsuccessful. “I have to frost the cake before I can leave,” he says, running his fingers through Charles’ hair.

Charles closes his eyes and buries his face in Erik’s shirt. “You could stay,” he says eventually. He’s thought about it before—a lot, even—introducing David to Erik, watching the two of them talk and eat and play. There’s nothing he wants more in the world than to see that, and he’s tired of waiting for good things to happen.

But Erik is still silent, his hand frozen in Charles’ hair. “I thought—” he says after a moment. “Are you sure?”

Trying not to think about what the other parents will say or think and instead focusing on what he wants—what David needs—Charles nods. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Charles says, leaning up to kiss Erik on the cheek.

And he knows it’s the right choice when David cracks a shy smile when he walks through the door an hour later.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Trouble with Telepaths (for the love of food remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057947) by [firehawk05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehawk05/pseuds/firehawk05)




End file.
